if i were a woman made of wood,
oh, how impossible it would be
to stab a cavern
in soft flesh.
for there would be no skin to squeeze,
to puncture.
no tissue for scars;
no canvas of flesh, on which
nails scrape its surface,
exhuming thin straits of blood
which dry like ice freezing over.
if i were a woman made of wood,
oh, how water would fold over me,
like a veil revealing
deep mahogany.
oh, how buds would blossom,
instead of
disentombing
red crevices.
for I have dreamed
one thousand dreams
to be a woman made of wood.
for when Voice tells me to lance,
instead of exhuming plasma
i would cover the ground
in woodchips.